


battle fever

by meritmut



Series: i loved you well, when we were young [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Loki the worried boyfriend, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 18:04:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meritmut/pseuds/meritmut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which having a war god for a girlfriend has probably given Loki an ulcer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	battle fever

In her armour she gleams, a silver curve slashed out of the night’s silken shadows as if by his own deft blades and in that moment - when all that fills his mind is relief at seeing her there, alive and safe - Loki falters. Falters and hesitates on the steps where before he’d nearly raced to find her. Catching his breath, he lets her ascend to meet him.

She hasn’t escaped quite unscathed; one eye is half-closed and swollen, bruised near-black in the darkness though he reassures himself that it likely looks a lot worse than it really is. She’d tell him that herself if given the chance, coupled with a roll of her other eye and a sour glare, but he has learned now not to give her that chance. She can tolerate many of his peculiarities, this wild warmaker of his, but not being fussed over.

Her lip too is bruised, the lower neatly split down the centre. She looks more like she’s been in a tavern fistfight than an armed skirmish, and her knuckles, when he takes her hands in his and raises them for inspection, further the image. Grazed and discoloured, he realises that the littlest finger on her right hand is dislocated. She winces slightly when he turns the hand to get a closer look, but gives no other outward sign of what must be a fair amount of discomfort.

"May I?"

"Go on, then."

With a breath and a whispered word Loki shifts the bone back into place - Sif groans, then sighs as the pain fades. “My thanks.”

"It was naught. Now - about your lip."

"Aren’t you going to ask me how I came by these wounds?" She grins, proud as ever of the bloody medals born in combat, and it’s Loki’s turn to roll his eyes.

"I can guess. You decided that there was more satisfaction to be gained in taking on whichever opponent claimed your attention with your fists than with your blades. And no doubt your opponent felt the same." He eyes her baldly, the affection in his voice making what might’ve been a criticism on another’s tongue a mere statement of fact on his own. He knows she loves to get her hands dirty where she may, to hear the grate of bone on bone and the harsh ring of armour in collision, to reaffirm her own fearless existence with acts of valour (and, sometimes, undeniable recklessness).

"Actually, this time I was just disarmed. Still, the day is won and I am _fine_ ,” she hisses as his thumb scrapes across her lip. He’d intended it to be a tender thing - to heal it - but the movement of her mouth had driven his thumb against her skin a little too hard. She draws back, exasperated. “I’m fine, Loki. I don’t need…”

"Coddling. I know. I meant no harm."

"You gave none. But you still may help me."

"Name the way."

"I’ve done my shoulder in - I’ll need help removing this," she gestures with one hand to her armour, a slow smile playing across her ruddy mouth. She steps close, splays her fingers across his chest and leans in to brush her lips over his own, ignoring the sting. "Will you assist me?"

Loki blinks - perhaps it’s just the night shadowing her fair features, but Sif’s narrowed eyes are black chasms, endless singularities from which dark hooks twist deep to drag him down, down into their fathomless depths. Her breath is a warm thing against his neck and her fingers mould themselves to the shape of his high collar as she pulls him down to touch her mouth to his, desire aflame in her veins in the aftermath of battle.

It’s a sweet recompense for the fear Loki sometimes feels - the worry that Sif might not make it home from whichever sortie or mission the king sends her away on. She returns to the citadel battered and bloody half the time yet every inch of her silver-coated skin, haloed in moonlight and her own inner luminosity, now thrums with the vitality of victory.

Rough-handed and demanding she may be but Loki is no softer with her as he takes her in his arms there in the shadows of the courtyard, lets her sink her sharp white teeth into his lip as if she would draw blood to match her own and drain him dry. Which she does, without mercy, swallowing his moans and claiming every starved sound for her own, selfish lover that she is in times like this. When she returns to him she inhabits still the carnivorous shape of her own warlike sister-self, Sif the Unstoppable, Maker of Widows and Shield of Thunder, a harder incarnation than the one that had left his side in the dawn, and the thought of giving quarter is as unknown to her as giving ground.

When the lust of battle sings in her veins only blood will sate her - and only a smooth-tongued sorcerer prince is an offering worthy of the war god’s altar.


End file.
